


Choirs in My Head

by craple



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan sings, sometimes; when God fails him, when he sees too much and not enough, when he is haunted by the nightmare of his brothers’ screams of pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choirs in My Head

**Author's Note:**

> this is me musing over vikings and despairing over the lack of ragnar/athelstan in the latest and upcoming episode. shoot me now and be done with it; i cannot handle the anticipation.

Athelstan sings, sometimes; when God fails him, when he sees too much and not enough, when he is haunted by the nightmare of his brothers’ screams of pain.

Times like those, Athelstan would always run to the river – the place of salvation, the place where he can purify himself, the place that reminds him so much of home – sink into the cold water until his skin is as pale as the flesh of a dead fish, until his lungs are burning, suffocating to the point where his vision whites.

It helps, sometimes, if only for a while. Athelstan would forget that he is the only one who survived the slaughter of his brothers because he is too focussed on getting his lungs back to work. He would mess around the riverside to clean his tunic of dirt and make sure his breeches are dry, as Lagertha hates it when the wooden-floor is wet.

But then he would look at the rising of the sun and he would remember of the days when he was obliged to fetch water from the well, to help his brothers in the kitchen with sufficient amount of vegetables and boiled potatoes; to clean the altar and lead the choirs for the Morning Prayer.

His heart clenches painfully tight, at the reminder. Being a monk has never been easy for Athelstan, but he had enjoyed the experience while it lasted. His parents have – _had_ – never been the most attentive of people, but he could not blame them for leaving the world of the men too soon.

Singing the words of God has always been his passion ever since, and he does not plan on stopping that particular activity, with or without his brothers.

Wrapping the thick reddish robe around himself, Athelstan watches the early morning light descends, takes a deep steadying breath of the fresh northern air – then he begins to sing.

* * *

Ragnar approaches him just as he is about to skin the hares Bjorn brought home from his hunt with Lagertha. He ignores the man’s presence like he oft does when the nightmare struck four hours prior and is glad to have the pretence of Ragnar understanding him of that matter at least.

Athelstan is not so foolish as to think Ragnar does understand him.

The reason Ragnar doesn’t say anything is because Ragnar does not wish to say anything right now, is probably too busy making sure Athelstan skins the flesh of the hare just right, whether or not he handles the knife precisely the same way he taught Athelstan to a few days ago.

He is proven right when Ragnar leans into Athelstan’s space, his bare chest a burning furnace between Athelstan’s shoulder blades, and Athelstan freezes and drops one of the hare’s legs in lieu of cutting his fingers off.

“You cut the meat too deeply,” Ragnar comments, taking the hare away from Athelstan’s grasp, places it almost fondly across the table surface. “Lagertha always cuts the meat too deeply as well, when she is upset.” His hand closes around Athelstan’s hand, the one holding the knife, head tilting to the side in a questioning manner. “Have I done something to upset you, priest?”

_Yes_ , Athelstan thinks, with a bitter smile. Ragnar does not need to know that, though. “No,” he says instead. “You have not.” And Ragnar smiles.

“Good. Then I have a question for you.” At Athelstan’s silence, Ragnar continues, “Why do you keep disappearing every morning before we wake? Are you afraid that we will not like your voice when you sing?”

Athelstan’s back is ramrod-straight in an instant. The sound of Bjorn’s roar followed by Gyda’s merry laugh sounds so distant compared to the steady noise of Ragnar’s breathing. Athelstan is glad Ragnar has one hand curled around the hilt of the knife he’s holding, for a reason.

He wouldn’t kill Ragnar, no; Athelstan would never kill anyone – it is the greatest sin of all, seconded to the act of suicide – but _for_ Ragnar he would, if it is really necessary. Just. He does not quite know what to do with his mouth or where to put his hands, at the moment.

So Athelstan dissects the question, inch by painful inch, in his head. Mulls it over and over until his head hurts and his heart aches as the image of his brothers hung like slaughtered pigs’ flashes before his eyes, until the need to drown his head in cold water or sing until his throat bleeds washes over him in waves.

Counting to ten, Athelstan disentangles himself from Ragnar’s body to get a proper look at the man’s face. It is a handsome face, Ragnar’s. There is no anger or malice or anything, simply pure curiosity that reminds Athelstan of a younger brother in the monastery, who wants to know anything and everything, but is also not alike. _Far_ from alike.

When Ragnar does not move a single inch back, Athelstan decides to answer the truth. “I did not sing at your house, near you, because you remind me too much of my dead brothers.” He tells Ragnar honestly. “I do not want to be near you sometimes, because the faces of my brothers haunt me most nights. I sing far away because I want to be reminded of my home and the pleasant memories it gives me. Not of my brothers’ blood in your hands.”

There is a moment of pause where Athelstan threads his words carefully. “Surely you do understand,” he finishes at last.

Ragnar does not move, does not speak, and Athelstan does not meet his eyes.

But then there is a hand cupping his jaw, strong and rough and smells of salt-water-blood, and Ragnar is looking at him with an emotion one can categorise as regret – or something close to it. As far as everyone is concerned, Ragnar never regrets a single thing he’s done, as long as it produces gold, no one really cares either.

This time though, he looks like he does. Almost, a tiny little bit. For some reason unknown even to himself, that knowledge gives him relief he should not feel.

“I am sorry for what happened to you.” Ragnar says, then nothing else.

It sounds too sincere to be true, but Ragnar never says something he does not mean. Athelstan nods jerkily in response, for he does not know what else to do except for that, and Ragnar’s hand lingers, leaves a hot patch on Athelstan’s skin, before leaving.

He dreams of strong hands and tangled sheets, of Ragnar’s sincere face and electric blue eyes, and Athelstan sings in a very different manner of sorts – for a very different reason that leaves him satisfied instead of horrified.

The guilt that settles in his chest feels less of a burden than the one from the nightmare.

Athelstan is not sure what to do with that.


End file.
